That’s how I remember how to spell Wednesday. I say it like that… I’m a pretty shoddy speller. I blame technology. My generation was the first one with access to computer programs for typing in school and, I think, the part of my brain that was supposed to grow to help me become a gud spelur was stunted.
I used to also drink coffee when I was a kid. And no, I don’t mean my mother gave me hot chocolate and called it coffee. I don’t mean that she put a drop or two into a cup of warm milk. She would let me have entire gulps of her coffee. Smoky, roasty, creamy and sweet. I love coffee, really… But I think it stunted my growth, too. My sister towers over me at like 5’9” or 5’10”… She’s got this long swan neck and long arms and long legs. My brother, too.
You want to talk about a hard-knock upbringing? Try playing basketball in the drive way with a dude that is more than a foot taller than you. Ooof.
But I’m stunted all over. Don’t get me wrong, I’m proportionate. My arms, when standing upright, rest comfortably by my sides. They don’t stick out like a midget’s arms. I have short legs, but they’re like… whatever. They’re proportionate.
I suppose what I’m getting at is being emotionally stunted. It’s really bizarre because when I look back at my childhood and upbringing, it was a pretty fucking awesome, model childhood. I didn’t suffer any trauma. Shit, I didn’t experience a death in the family until I was an adult.
But there are broken synapses that I don’t realize I have until they’re triggered… Moments where, in a panic, I start talking myself in circles, over thinking things to the point of mental exhaustion. And it’s then, when I’m brain-dead, that I lift my head up from my defeated posture and think, “Shit… Why am I being this way?”
I’m stunted. I’m broken. I’m damaged. In my adult life, I have gone through some really fucking ridiculous bullshit… But it’s not because I was dragged into something. I wasn’t victimized. I was attracted to the trauma. Maybe, in some really stupid and dysfunctional Jami-way, I’m making up for the good, easy, trauma-free childhood. Maybe I’m trying to even the scales because I’m a masochist.
What I know right now:
I am healthy (I mean, I still need to get my tonsils out)
I have a real, incredible stable living situation with my parents. This is the first time in a very long time that I can say I am not worried about what’s going to happen when rent is due. That’s… an accomplishment, however non-traditional it is as a situation.
My job brings me joy and satisfaction.
Things with the Sous have been great. I saw him twice last week and felt actual twinges of pain when we parted. I actually miss him.
I am happy.
It’s disarming. I’ve become so used to running into walls and being reminded of my dysfunctions that now, with everything in my life lined up the way it’s supposed to be… I’m left feeling… scattered. What do you call it when you feel more settled in chaos than when things are calm? I have that… Whatever it is.
But I am trying every day to be mindful of my life and my happiness. My friends are incredible, daily reminding me to, “Get over it. Stop being a puss, Jami.” (Thanks Jerad). Really, it’s a stupid thing to complain about — things being in order. But it’s a new territory for me.
I’m trying to get comfortable with it.